Honeymoon

Chapter 62

FEELING INCREDIBLY STUPID, John O’Hara, the Tourist, allowed himself to be patted down. He couldn’t believe he’d been suckered by this kid, this young pup, this whelp.

“Okay, turn around slowly.”

O’Hara did a 180. Very slowly.

“Now, where is it?” the guy asked. “The suitcase. What’s inside. Whatever you’ve got.”

“I don’t know. Honest, man.”

“Bullshit. Man.”

“Hey, I’m telling you the truth. I handed it off as soon as I got it. A garage in New York.”

The delivery guy pressed the barrel of his gun to O’Hara’s forehead. Hard, so it hurt. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to talk about.”

“You kill me and you’re dead within twenty-four hours. You. Personally. That’s the way it works.”

“I don’t think so,” Pizza Guy said, and cocked the gun.

O’Hara tried to read the kid’s eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. Coldness and confidence. This guy probably worked for the file’s original seller. Maybe he was the seller. “Okay, okay, hold on. I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“I have it here. I had it all the time.”

“Show me.”

O’Hara led him down the hallway to the bedroom. He could hear the faint sound of a neighbor’s stereo. Thought about screaming for help. “Under the bed,” he said. “I’ll get it. It’s in my duffel bag.”

“You just stay where you are. I’ll look under the bed for both of us.”

The delivery guy bent down to take a peek. Sure enough, there was a black duffel. He grinned. “You don’t know what it is, do you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because if you did, I don’t think you’d be sleeping here with it.”

“Then I guess I should be happy to give it back to you.”

“That’s right. Now, pull it out. Nice and easy.”

“What’s your part in this? You the seller? Or are you another messenger?”

“Just pull out the bag. I’m a messenger, by the way. Like my friend. Guy you shot at Grand Central Station. He was like a brother to me.”

The Tourist knelt and slowly began to reach under the bed.

“Keep one hand on top of the bed,” said Pizza Guy.

“Whatever you say.” With his left hand perched on the bedsheets, the right disappeared, looking for the duffel bag.

And the gun taped to the side.

“You got it?” asked the delivery guy. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Yeah, I got it. Relax a little, huh? We’re both pros, right?”

“One of us seems to be.”

O’Hara swung out his arm and fired two shots, the bullets ripping through the guy’s chest. He fell to the floor, dead. Actually, there were two of the dead guy in the double-mirrored closet door, which was doubly creepy.

O’Hara checked for ID. He wasn’t surprised that he didn’t find any. Not even a wallet.

He went out to the kitchen and made the requisite phone call. They’d come and remove the body, even clean up the bloodstains on the carpet. They were very efficient. Until then, there was only one thing to do.

He opened the pizza box and grabbed a slice of sausage and onion. The first bite is always the best. And now, as he chewed his food, came the questions for the ages, the only ones that counted. Who had sent Pizza Guy after him? Who knew he was there? Who wanted him dead?

And how could he use any of this to his advantage in the future?

Oh yeah, and did he have a future?